


A Bear To Work With

by AndyAO3



Series: Tales of a Tiny Angry Warden [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: A Warden who's a bit difficult, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't know quite what direction I'm going to go yet, Fighting bits, Gen, Grumpy bits, M/M, Major plot spoilers, Might be smut later, Multi, Possibly angsty, and now there is violence and torture, off-color humor, possible slash, the direction has been figured out, the ships have collided and war has been declared
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1875387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyAO3/pseuds/AndyAO3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To put it simply, the newest Grey Warden recruit is a pain in the arse.</p>
<p>No longer anything remotely resembling drabbles (it suddenly got coherent on me), this is the story of a grumpy little elf and his ongoing mission to piss off everyone he meets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

> YOOOOOOOOOOO first Dragon Age fic.
> 
> Just got Origins: Ultimate Edition. I've put a lot of hours into it and I don't even think I'm halfway through yet. I've played it mostly by ear, except for with Zevran, who is DIFFICULT GAH. Whatever. I got encouraged to post this, so I am. If y'all like it, I might make more, who knows. This is basically me dipping my toes into the turbulent waters of this fandom to see whether my leg gets bitten off or not.

"Hey!" Alistair shouted, shooting a glare at the more magically inclined of the Warden recruits. "Watch where you're throwin' those fireballs, mate!"

"You watch where you're _standing_ , human, and maybe you won't get hit!" the mage snapped back, narrowing his eyes. "And it's not like you're hurt, so quit bitching."

Alistair frowned deeply at the short, grumpy elf, and found himself wondering - not for the first time that day - why Duncan had chosen him.

Teodorus Surana, his name was. Like most elves, he was cursed with forever looking a bit too thin to be healthy. He was short for an elf, and his temper was shorter. He favored his left leg, but not badly enough to slow him down; any attempts to help him or get him to rest because of his limp were met with a snarl.

He was pale as the driven snow, with his long platinum-blond hair up in a tight braid save for a few loose strands that hung in front of his face. His elvhen ears seemed exceptionally prominent and sharp, and his round eyes were a harsh steely grey that made him look especially judgemental when he would narrow them in contempt (something he did frequently, whenever Jory was being a thick git, or whenever Daveth was goading him, or whenever anyone ever did anything the mage didn't approve of).

But, he was a good mage. Alistair reminded himself of that whenever the little ball of bitterness happened to make an amateur mistake, which was often. Teodorus was a _good_ mage. He'd shown a remarkable knack for setting things on fire, thus far, and he'd also proven able to pick up heavy things with his power, set those things on fire, and throw them at other things. Alistair was fairly certain that particular spell was improvisation on the young mage's part, since he didn't think that sort of thing would be taught at the Circle.

The main problem was that Teodorus - or "Teddy", as Daveth called him - hadn't really fought alongside people before, and no one at the Circle had ever bothered to teach the barely-Harrowed young mage about things like friendly fire.

Or collateral damage, for that matter. It was probably a good thing the Wilds were a vast wetland, otherwise their mage would've caused a wildfire by that point.

Alistair sighed, and bent to look his shield over and see if the fireball gone awry had damaged it. As he was reaching a gauntleted hand over to scratch at a sooty smear on the otherwise clean surface, he heard a yelp off to the side, and whipped around to look for the source.

"If you have a problem with _elves_ then say it to my _face_ , you cocksucking son of a whore!" the mage howled, in that way he had that made his voice almost-but-not-quite crack. Jory was nursing a minor burn on his arm and staring at him like he was caught between feeling shocked and horrified.

Rolling his eyes, Alistair cleared his throat loudly. He was supposed to be _leading_ them, after all. Six months their senior still made him their senior. "Everyone getting on all right back there?" he called out, keeping his tone friendly, but firm. He hoped he sounded at least somewhat authoritative.

" ** _YES!_** " Teddy snapped in reply before Jory could respond. He took another second to glare daggers at the dumbfounded warrior, and then he stormed off with a huff. Poor Jory looked upset and confused, like he wasn't sure what he'd done to cause offense.

 _This_ , Alistair thought, _is going to be a long day._

 


	2. Up In The Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair is in a mood, and Teddy is a fluffy kitten with anger management issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey look I continued it.

The first few days after Loghain's betrayal were a bit of a mess. There had been crying (which Alistair could grudgingly admit to doing) and comforting (which Teodorus would _not_ admit to doing), and after the batty old woman had seen to their numerous injuries, neither of them was sure quite what to do afterward.

They were the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, and the next Blight was steadily creeping up on them.

Flemeth - if it really _was_ Flemeth, anyway, because Alistair still wasn't entirely sure that it was _the_ Witch of the Wilds they were dealing with - suggested they go north to Lothering, and they agreed mainly due to a complete lack of options. Somewhere in the course of the conversation, the task of taking Morrigan (the witch's daughter) with them was also thrust upon them, and Alistair couldn't shake the feeling that what they were doing was akin to taking a child or pet out for a stroll.

At least Morrigan was no happier with this arrangement than they seemed to be. That made it _slightly_ less awful. Now if only Ted (wait, since when were they good enough friends for Alistair to think of him as _Ted_?) would stop tripping over things or walking into trees due to being distracted by her, erm... Maker-given gifts, then they'd be all set.

Lothering was a few days off. By the time they got there, they were cold, tired, and in need of a bath. To top it off, a Mabari had found them along the way and taken to following their elf around. Even grumpy as he was, Ted hadn't been able to refuse the big sad puppy eyes, and had let the dog come along. Morrigan didn't appreciate this - it kept slobbering on her and trying to be friends with her - but Alistair could see the good it was doing the other Warden to have the dog along and have something other than their quest to think about.

Alistair, meanwhile, just had the quest itself to take his mind off of the darker things he could be thinking about. Like Duncan's death, or Loghain's betrayal of the King... _damn_ , that last one made him angry. If they'd had Loghain's assistance, the plan would've worked. They could have nipped this whole sodding business in the proverbial bud. Instead the darkspawn would be allowed to spread and grow like a cancerous mass, bringing death and destruction with it.

Did Loghain even _know_ how many people he'd sentenced to death with his actions? Innocent, _good_ people? Even if they hadn't stopped the Blight in its tracks, then at least Duncan's survival would've meant that they could recruit more Wardens to be able to fight it; it wasn't as if Alistair knew how the Joining ritual worked. And if the King had survived, then maybe they would've been able to better call upon the assistance of their allies _properly_ , and not been forced to go on a mad trek across Ferelden just to shove some old treaties in the faces of any faction leaders that might give a rat's arse.

It was all a right nasty mess, and all of it could be traced back to Loghain in some way. Over the course of a few days, Alistair grew to hate the man he'd once thought of as a hero.

Ted noticed his introspection. When they'd set up camp for the last time before hitting Lothering, just a few miles off from the village proper, the scrawny elf came over to sit next to him at the pitifully sputtering campfire. The last few days had made Ted's limp more pronounced, and he sighed heavily as he eased himself down onto the muddy ground.

"You all right, there?" Alistair asked. He was a little surprised to note that the glare he received in answer wasn't quite as sharp as it had been in the past.

"Are you?" the mage countered, peering at him curiously.

The former templar blinked for a moment, mildly shocked that the smaller man actually cared to ask. "I... guess I've had better days. Why?"

"You've been quiet." Ted told him matter-of-factly.

Had he? Well. Okay. He probably _had_ been quiet. Loghain was a subject he couldn't bring himself to joke about, and he didn't like bringing things up in banter that he couldn't either turn into teasing or self-deprication. Anger didn't make for good small talk. "Does me being quiet actually bother you? That's a switch."

"It bothers me when you're not acting like yourself. Usually that means something's wrong, and I've already got enough going on without having more to add to the list of shit that needs fixing." Ted leveled a stern frown at the warrior. "Your problems are my problems so long as you're with me, Alistair, so don't think that you can't tell me about them. I don't want some toxic thought being left to fester in your thick skull until it becomes a major issue later on."

As Alistair listened, a slow grin began to form on his face. "Aw, you really _do_ care about people," he said after a moment.

It was worth it just to watch Ted get his hackles up. "I fucking _don't_ , okay, I just don't want it to be a problem later when I don't have time to do anything about it because I'm up to my eyes in darkspawn," the mage insisted angrily.

Alistair couldn't help but snicker. "You're cute when you get all irritable, y'know that? You get this little knot right between your..." He trailed off when he realized that continuing that train of thought might get him set on fire. Especially considering his tangent would probably lead to him mentioning that Ted reminded him of a runty, fluffy kitten with its fur all puffed out in annoyance. "Anyway. I'm fine, really. You don't have to worry about me."

Ted scrutinized him for a while, before turning back towards the fire with a _hmph_ , staring into it moodily. The former templar couldn't even _begin_ to guess what the mage might be thinking. The fact that calling him cute hadn't caused an outburst for Alistair to poke fun at threw the warrior off a little. Just who was it that was acting stange between the two of them, exactly?

For a second he considered saying something more, although he wasn't quite sure just what that something more might end up being - he'd figure it out as he went along - but his thoughts were truncated by a high-pitched shriek from the other side of the camp. He was just about to reach for his weapon out of sheer habit, but he stopped himself when he realized what was going on.

" _Augh_ , you filthy, stinking, disgusting, flea-ridden **mongrel**!" Morrigan howled, answered by the sound of cheerful, enthusiastic barking. "I have half a mind to turn you into a pair of _shoes_ , you monstrous creature!"

At that, Alistair burst out laughing. It was the best he'd felt in days.

 


	3. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new addition to the party makes Alistair twitchy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Used actual dialogue this time. Well, mostly. Teddy's got a bit more bite than the ingame Warden, and that's where the fun comes from.

Ted had started picking up party members like a barmy old cat lady might pick up mangy strays. It had been happening so often that Alistair was recognizing a few patterns to the normally-grumpy mage's behavior.

First, his ears would perk and his eyebrows would lift sometime shortly after initial introductions. Then, over the course of whatever amount of time was spent with their newest companion, he would watch the newcomer with an increasingly thoughtful frown, schooling his expression to something more polite whenever their new friend might glance his way before going right back to scrutinizing them.

If disappointed, the mage's body language would shift into something a bit more moody, and he might even get snappy with the potential new friend in question. This happened when they first visited the Dalish; Alistair could have sworn that the air temperature dropped a few degrees in Ted's immediate vicinity when it became clear that their Keeper's apprentice wasn't about to leave her clan for the sake of adventuring.

However, if they _didn't_ disappoint, the next steps were just as predictable. Seeing that their newfound friend had both good companion-y qualities (and the scrawny mage never really _did_ give a straight answer for what he considered the definition of that to be) and a bit of wanderlust about them, Ted would perk up even more, and the thoughtful frown would give way to a smirk as he relaxed around the person.

Then, he'd glance at Alistair as if he were wordlessly asking for permission to take this newcomer along, before finally giving in and asking them if they'd like to come along.

When Alistair had pressed him about why he always did that last bit, he'd snorted in response. "You're the senior Warden," Ted had replied. "Besides, I come from the Circle, remember? Asking for permission from the nearest Templar is an old habit."

On reflection, Alistair had realized that the pattern held from as far back as when the mage had picked up the Mabari. He'd done it with Leliana, even though the woman had practically begged Ted to be allowed to come along and used such adorable puppy eyes that Alistair was tempted to dub her cuteness a deadly weapon. He'd done it with Sten, even when freeing the stoic Qunari was agreed upon as being the most humane thing to do by both Leliana _and_ Morrigan, and those two _never_ agreed. He'd even done it with Shale, when the golem probably would have followed them anyway out of a lack of better things to do aside from squishing helpless birds.

The one time he _didn't_ do it was alarming not only because it was completely out of character, but also because it was the first time Alistair had seriously disapproved of Ted's choice.

It was after they'd gotten word that Lothering had been destroyed, on the way out of Denerim. They'd made a trip to the city to get supplies and whatever updates or news they could pick up while they were there, since having helped the Dalish with a werewolf problem had depleted their stockpile of potions, food, and herbs. Ted had needed to be physically restrained at one point while they were in the city because of the comments of a carelessly racist guard outside the walled-off alienage, but other than that, nothing eventful had really happened for a few days.

While on the road, they'd been confronted by a terrified woman babbling about an attack. Or at least, she was _acting_ terrified. Leliana murmured a fairly typical "oh, you poor woman" but she was the only one who was convinced. A glance was shared between the two Wardens, and even Shale let out a long-suffering heavy sort of sigh at the obviousness of it all. Still, it would be better to meet their ambushers head-on; Alistair reached for his sword as the group of them broke into a run to follow.

The woman stopped just short of an upturned cart a few meters ahead of them. Then a dark-skinned, light-haired elf stepped out from behind the cart, and she seemed to say a few words to him. The elf smiled rather coldly, turning to face them and sizing each of them up in turn.

At the elf's gesture, they were very thoroughly surrounded by well-armed and previously unseen men, and suddenly Alistair was quite glad that he already had his sword out.

Fortunately, the battle was over quickly. Stealthy as they'd been, the idiots that had thought to attack them were only slightly better than your average hired goons. Not to mention that Shale was getting restless and bored from having not had anything to squish while they were in the city. The only one that showed any real skill was the one who seemed to be their leader, that elf from before. He took a while.

Even dodgy as he was, though, he wasn't immune to a whack from the pommel of Alistair's sword. That was the trouble with rogues; they didn't do so well when surrounded, and just having to maneuver his way out of getting burnt to a crisp by Ted's spells while trying not to get smashed by Shale was enough to distract him. An arrow in the side from Leliana after that made him stagger, and that was when Alistair took the opportunity to knock him out.

Shale moved as if to turn the elf's head to jam like all the others, but surprisingly, Ted stepped up to stop the golem before that could happen. "No, wait," the mage said, holding up a hand. Both Alistair and Leliana looked up sharply at him, while Shale raised a stony brow. Ted glanced between the three of them, then back at the would-be assassin. "We should find out who hired him first, right?"

This was the first time Ted had said anything of the sort in regards to those who had thought to ambush them. Then again, it was also the first time that there had been any sort of organization or planning to the ambush itself, so the small mage _did_ have a fair point. Grudgingly, Alistair put away his weapon and shield, Leliana following suit and lowering her bow.

Once he was satisfied that no one in their party would kill the other elf without cause, Ted hobbled over and pulled a bit of rope for tent-making from his pack, easing himself down to a seated position so that he could bind the man's hands tightly together. Then, he took the man's daggers, as well as several other knives and other sharp things that he found in the assassin's possession (Alistair was actually a little surprised that one person could carry that many stabbing implements on them at once). It was only after all that was done that he went to none-too-gently pull Leliana's arrow out of the man's side and start healing him.

It took a few minutes for the tattooed elf to awaken, groaning slightly in pain; Alistair couldn't help but feel a little better about the fact that Ted had apparently refrained from healing what was probably a splitting headache. The annoying sod deserved a little payback for having tried to kill them.

"Mnh, what..." The rogue blinked against the light and turned his head as if to block it out. "I--" He paused briefly when he caught sight of the two wardens, and Alistair could practically see his thoughts racing to catch up to the present in spite of what was probably a painful concussion. "--oh. I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be." Then he smirked lazily. "But, I see you haven't killed me yet."

"Not yet," their mage said sharply, suggesting that this could easily be rectified. "I have some questions first."

"Ahh, so I am to be interrogated." The assassin sat up, and while he was going about it slowly enough that his head probably _was_ a bit sore, the fact that he only cringed slightly while doing so was enough to make Alistair think he probably hadn't hit the man hard enough. "Let me save you some time."

Alistair was instantly distrustful. This bastard had just tried to have them _killed_ , and yet he was giving them information freely?

"My name is Zevran. Zev, to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens... which I have, heh, failed at." The smirk faltered for a split second. "Sadly."

Ted looked like he was fighting back a grin, probably trying to remain stern for the sake of his status as resident authority figure. "Forgive me for not being all that broken up about your miserable and embarassing failure."

The man who called himself Zevran laughed, smiling in a way that made Alistair feel distinctly uncomfortable. "Ahaha, nor would I be, were I in your shoes. For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn't it? Getting captured by a target seems a _tad_ detrimental to one's budding assassin career."

"Uh-huh." Ted stood to his full height, unimpressive as it was, and folded his arms. "So who hired you to kill us?"

"A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was..." Zevran frowned slightly to himself, then nodded once. "Yes, that's it."

Alistair stiffened at the mere _sound_ of that name, and the mage's jaw tensed. "Are you loyal to him, then?" Ted asked.

Zevran smiled disarmingly. "I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine-- you threaten his power, yes? Beyond that, no, I am not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service."

"Yeah, great job you did with that, by the way," Ted remarked.

Their prisoner chuckled nervously. "Eheh, well, _that's_ between Loghain and the Crows. And between the Crows and myself."

Ted raised an eyebrow. "And between you and me."

"Isn't that what we are establishing now?" And that smirk returned, just as charming as before. Or, to Alistair at least, just as grating.

"So how much were you paid to kill two Wardens and their entourage?" With a gesture, Ted first indicated himself and Alistair, then Shale and Leliana.

"I was not paid anything. The Crows, however, were paid quite handsomely. Or so I understand." Zevran tilted his head with a thoughtful look. "Which does make me about as poor as a Chantry mouse, come to think of it. Being an Antivan Crow isn't for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest."

The young mage gawked at that. "Then why the fuck did you even sign up?"

"Well, aside from a distinct lack of ambition, I suppose it's because I wasn't given much of a choice. The Crows... bought me young. I was a bargain, too, or so I'm led to believe." Then the rogue shrugged lightly, and his grin quickly returned. "But don't let my sad story influence you. The Crows aren't so bad. They keep one well supplied; wine, women, men, whatever you happen to fancy... Though, the whole severance package is _garbage_ , let me tell you. If you're considering joining, I'd really think twice about it."

Ted stared for a long moment, clearly baffled. He obviously tried a couple of times to come up with something to say, but each time, he closed his mouth quickly as if to avoid saying anything stupid. Finally he settled on something simple that also happened to be bothering Alistair. "...why are you telling me all this."

Again, the tattooed elf laughed, gesturing with his bound hands. "Why not? I wasn't paid for _silence_. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely."

"Aren't you at least loyal to your employers?"

Zevran's lips quirked again in that wry smirk. "Loyalty is an interesting concept," he said cryptically. "If you wish - and you're done interrogating me - we can discuss it further."

Another pause where Ted just stared at the man's sheer audacity. "...oookay?"

"Well, here's the thing," Zevran began, shifting to sit a little straighter and rotating his shoulders with a few faint _pop_ s. "I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like _living_ , and you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So, let me serve _you_ instead."

"What, so you can give me the same loyalty you showed your _last_ employer?"

The man looked hurt. "I happen to be a very loyal person, up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing. That's not a _fault_ , really, is it? I mean, unless you're the sort who would do the same thing. In which case I... don't come very well recommended, I suppose."

Ted didn't seem too convinced. "What's stopping you from finishing the job?"

"To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding _joining_ the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child... I _think_ I paid my worth back to them plus tenfold. The only way out, however," and at that, Zevran looked up meaningfully at his captors, "is to sign up with someone they can't touch. Even if I did kill you now, they might just kill me on principle for failing the _first_ time. Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you."

"But won't they still come after us again? And you, especially if you're with us."

"Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as you... Not that you seem to need much help." The assassin paused, then added quickly, "--and if not, _well_ , it's not as if I had many alternatives to start with, is it?"

"I still don't see what you'd get out of this. Or why I should trust you."

"Well, let's see. Being allowed to _live_ would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you. And somewhere down the line, should you decide that you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours... is that fair?"

Alistair found himself liking the slimy bastard less and less the more he spoke. He couldn't help but think that a lot of it was lies, crafted carefully so that the Antivan elf might save his own sorry hide. The questioning kept up for a while longer, and Zevran's answers didn't get any less irritating as he explained how useful he could be, all while flirting so openly with the young mage that it honestly made Alistair _very_ uncomfortable.

Just as the former templar was thinking that the best course of action would be to let the assassin go so that he might be killed by his former comrades, though, Ted said something that caught him off-guard.

"All _right_ , you can come along, damn it," the mage sighed, rolling his eyes and kneeling again to reach for Zevran's bonds.

" _What_?!" Alistair couldn't believe it. "You're taking the _assassin_ with us now? Does that _really_ seem like a good idea?"

Ted snorted. " _You're_ here, aren't you? Taking in strays is what I _do._ "

Alistair pouted. "Oww. Maybe true, but... _oowww_."

At that point the mage turned to look at him directly. "Seriously though, we could use a pet assassin."

"We could _apparently_ use a swift kick in the head, too, but you don't see me going around asking for one." Alistair crossed his arms over his chest and frowned deeply.

Ted frowned right back. "What crawled up your ass and died? Seriously, Alistair, unless you want to kill him yourself..."

"Iiii, well..." The former Templar winced, and relented. " _No_ , I suppose we could use all the help we can get. Still, if there's a sign we were _desperate_ , I think it just knocked on the door and said hello."

"I've made my decision, and that's final. Quit your bitching already." With that, Ted returned to untying the assassin's bonds, and Alistair glared and stuck his tongue out at the back of the mage's head.

" _Right_ , don't mind me. Just a _peon_ in your command structure here, wallowing in my insignificance," he sneered. "Oh, whatever, I'm sure _you know best_."

He knew he was being petty and childish. Ted probably knew it too, because he didn't say anything more, and indeed seemed to be ignoring Alistair by then.

Leliana spoke up, possibly to break the tension. "Welcome, Zevran. Having an Antivan Crow join us sounds like a fine plan," she said, smiling politely.

The Crow in question gave her his most charming grin."Oh~? You are another companion-to-be, then? I wasn't aware that such _loveliness_ existed amongst adventurers, surely."

"...Or maybe not," the bard amended, giving him a cold look.

 


	4. From Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran thinks everyone is a little crazy, but the little Warden with a limp is especially so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the PoV because otherwise it'd be Alistair's inner monologue of "what's so great about this assassin bloke anyway :I". Ran longer than I intended, but I don't think that's a BAD thing, it just means I have to shift around what my other chapters are going to focus on.

Zevran was starting to like the odd little Warden that had spared his life.

After he had joined their merry band, some time was spent at a camp set up a ways south from the city of Denerim. Zevran was introduced to a dwarven merchant and his son, a breathtakingly beautiful witch, a friendly hound the size of a pony, and an unnervingly quiet Qunari. He had never met anyone before that who could have assembled such an eclectic group of devoted followers without the aid of a royal decree, mountains of coin, or death threats to families.

Whatever else might be said about the occasionally sour, foul-mouthed mage, he was certainly well-respected and well-liked by those around him. It was impressive, to be sure. More importantly though, it made him feel even more sure of his decision to ingratiate himself with the younger man. Surely there was nowhere that he would be _safer_ than at this Teo fellow's side.

The next morning, their camp was a blur of activity. After they had broken their fast - and Zevran had to admit that the two mages had managed to throw together one of the better meals he'd had in recent memory, with their combined efforts - Teodorus pulled a map of Ferelden from the dwarven merchant's wagon, and unfurled it on top of an upturned barrel that had been used more than once as a makeshift work surface over the course of the morning. Apparently this was an unspoken signal of sorts, because everyone decided then to put aside whatever it was they were doing and join the little elf 'round the barrel, even the usually antisocial golem.

Where had the man even _found_ a golem? For that matter, a golem with free will, that promptly decided it would _follow him anyway_? Perhaps it was a Warden thing.

"Okay, here's the plan," Teodorus began, glancing at Alistair, then turning his attention back to the map. Zevran had noticed that the younger Warden did that rather a lot. "Alistair, you said our best bet for help is probably the Arl, right?" He stabbed at where Redcliffe was on the map with a thin finger.

The other Warden nodded. "The one most likely to do so without needing to have his arm twisted, yes. Fat lot of good that does us when Eamon's _sick_ , though."

"I know," the mage said. "That's why we're going to cure him."

The witch, Morrigan, lifted a thin brow in disbelief. "And how do you propose we accomplish this miraculous feat? 'Tis difficult enough to heal a fleeting sickness. One that lingers so long as this is almost certainly beyond hope."

Teo's gaze flicked towards her, and he grinned. "We find Andraste's ashes."

Alistair gave him a funny look. "Alright, now I _know_ you've lost it. As of now I'm declaring you to be barking mad."

"Look, I know how crazy it sounds," Teodorus cut in before anyone else could interrupt, "but if we go to Redcliffe now and _then_ backtrack to go hunt for some kind of cure so we can get the help we need, it'll take too long. We need to get this done _now_ so that we have the cure in hand when we get to the castle."

It seemed Leliana did not approve. "You would desecrate holy ground for the sake of one man?"

"One man who could be the key to the whole Landsmeet siding with us against Loghain, so that we can have all the combined forces of Ferelden on our side to stop the Blight?" Their unofficial leader snorted. "Yes. If you don't like it, then don't come along."

Leliana went quiet, but the silent tension wasn't allowed to linger for more than a few seconds before Alistair spoke up again. "If you're planning on going after the ashes, then you must already have some idea of where they are," the taller man pointed out. "Care to enlighten the rest of us?"

Teodorus grinned again, so like an eager little boy that Zevran had a hard time believing for a moment that the man was a Warden. "I got a lead in Denerim," he admitted. "There's a town, not on the map. It's up in the mountains not far from Redcliffe." Again, the mage tapped at a spot on the map. "A researcher - goes by Brother Genitivi, you remember that ransacked house with the dead servant, Alistair? - had found evidence that there was a fucking old temple down there. His last journals indicated he was headed there himself because he was _that_ sure."

Alistair peered at the map for a while. He reached over Teo's shoulder and traced his finger along the line that indicated the old Imperial Highway, frowning slightly. "Erm, Ted. Hate to break it to you, but..." When his finger trailed into the bit of map greyed out with charcoal that indicated how far the Blight had gotten, he turned his head to give the much smaller man a significant look. "...There's darkspawn in the way."

"So?" Raising his eyebrows, Teo headtilted at the warrior and smirked. "We've killed our way through worse."

Had they? Zevran hadn't. But by the looks of things, he shouldn't have been shocked to hear that such a group was capable of it. Between the golem and the Qunari alone, he wouldn't be surprised if they could take on the entirety of the Blight themselves.

"Anyway, it's not their front lines, so they shouldn't be as concentrated," Teodorus continued. "We sneak around them wherever we can, and we fight our way through when we can't manage the sneaking."

"I still think you're _mad_ ," Alistair muttered, probably half to himself.

A look from the mage silenced him. "Would you rather we cut through the Bannorn? Or Highever? Squeeze past the Circle Tower while we've got an apostate in tow? At least with the Darkspawn we _know_ they're our enemies. If we have to, we can get the Dalish to help keep the way clear. The Brecilian Forest is only a few days off from the path we'd be taking, and as far as I know, they haven't left yet."

Zevran blinked. "You have made allies of the Dalish?" That _was_ impressive. The Dalish as he knew of them were reclusive and xenophobic according to human tales, and fierce, proud hunters and warriors according to elven ones.

"Uh... yeah?" It seemed like Teo was surprised Zevran didn't know. Or that he was surprised the assassin thought it worth taking notice of. "We helped them with a werewolf problem."

Alistair rolled his eyes. "And _you_ were crushing on their Keeper's apprenti-- _oof_." His sentence was effectively truncated by Teo elbowing him in the side. Rubbing at his ribs slightly, the older Warden pouted. "Owww."

"She _is_ their Keeper now, and I was _not_ crushing on her." Even so, Teo's ears _had_ gone just a little bit red at the edges. There was clearly a story behind that, and Zevran was a little sad that he'd missed it. "Anyway. The plan. Anyone got any objections?" Leliana opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Teo added, "-- _besides_ religious ones." Clearly annoyed, the Orlesian woman resorted to merely seething silently in the younger Warden's general direction.

After a long moment of silence, Alistair hesitantly raised his hand.

"No, Alistair, you can't ride in Bodahn's cart."

"Aw, why not?" the taller man said jokingly. Then he dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. "It's not that. It's... well. Is Ostagar too much of a detour, d'you think?"

Teo turned fully to face the warrior, frowning. "Ostagar? The fuck do you want to go _there_ for?"

Alistair scuffed a boot against the ground. "Well. It's just-- we never went _back_ , y'know? And I'm looking at this map and I just think, there has to be _something_ we can find to... to _bury_ , I guess." There was an awkward pause, and then he continued hurriedly, "A-and the cup that was used for the Joining ritual -- we'll need that, won't we? If we're going to conscript any more Wardens, I mean. I'm not sure if the cup itself had any significance to the ritual but if it _did_ , then we'll want to have it, right?"

Zevran knew, from the way Teo cringed and seemed to seriously think about it, that the mage was going to grant Alistair's request. And sure enough, he did. "I... all _right_ , you have a point," the smaller man said with a heavy sigh, looking around at the rest of the group. "We'll have to keep it to a quick stop, though. Morrigan, I'm assuming you wouldn't be too keen on getting so close to the Wilds--"

"You assume correctly," Morrigan answered drily.

"--and Sten, I need you to stay behind with Bodahn and Sandal, make sure our moving base is safe--"

Sten bowed his head in aknowledgement.

"--so since Alistair's _definitely_ coming to Ostagar, and so am I, that leaves you three." He indicated Leliana, Shale, and Zevran with a broad gesture. "Leliana, how annoyed with me are you right now?"

Leliana stiffened. "You would doubt my loyalty based on--"

"Still pissed, okay," Teo said quickly to stop her before she could get started, and looked to the golem. "Shale?"

The golem heaved a sigh that was accompanied by the sound of stone grinding against stone. "Will it be going somewhere that is less abysmally _dull_ than staying at camp and guarding the fleshy mortals' supplies would be?" Shale asked.

"I can assure you that there will be lots of darkspawn to squish," the mage replied.

"Then I will accompany it to this... Ostagar."

"Awesome." Then, he turned to Zevran, steely determination in his eyes. "You coming, Zev? I swear you can take anything that isn't nailed down and doesn't belong to the Wardens."

An offer like that was practically a siren's call to the assassin, and he gave the younger elf his most charming grin. "When you put it like that, how can I even hope to refuse you? I am yours, dear Warden."

Teo grinned right back, and clapped his hands together with an air of finality. "Then let's pack up and get going."

Out of the corner of his eye, Zevran noticed that as everyone else was heading off to stow their tents away, Alistair had yet to move, and was looking at the Crow with something between a frown and a pout. When he realized he'd been caught staring, the warrior quickly turned away, shaking his head as if to clear it of a thought he'd had.

Zevran smirked to himself, but wisely kept his mouth shut. After all, in his experience, it was best to not point out to the envious party that their jealousy had become obvious.

 


	5. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the return to Ostagar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How am I even churning these out so fast omfg.

Even having not known the king very well personally, to see Cailan strung up like a trophy at Ostagar was a gut-wrenching reminder for Alistair of the sort of monsters they were up against, both human and otherwise.

A glance at Ted told him that the mage was faring no better, swallowing heavily with the muscles in his jaw tensed. "...We have to get him down," the younger warden said after a drawn-out silence, glancing at Alistair. "At least to give him a proper funeral."

Shale scoffed at that, but otherwise the whole group was in agreement. So, with painstaking care due to both the cold numbing their fingers and the Ferelden king's grisly state, they got the man's corpse down from where it had been hanging along the battlements.

At least it was in better shape than Duncan's body had been; Alistair had almost been sick inside his helmet at the sight. It had only been barely recognizable as the older Warden by the time they got there, with the main things to identify him by being his ruined armor and his blades. Even though Ted hadn't known Duncan for long, he still helped to gather dry wood for the pyre, and helped Alistair to set it alight when the former Templar's hands shook too much for him to spark a flame properly.

And as Alistair had fought back tears while the pyre had blazed, he distantly realized that Ted was speaking.

" _Hahren na melana sahlin, emma ir abelas. Souver'inan isala hamin, vhenan him dor'felas. In uthenera na revas,_ " the mage said in the reverent, respectful tone of a prayer. " _Vir sulahn'nehn, vir dirthera, vir samahl la numin, vir lath sa'vunin._ "

The words were so pretty, and so soothing. Alistair didn't know what they meant in the slightest. Part of him was curious to know, but another part didn't want to know at all; there was a certain hopeful, innocent magic about not knowing. By the time he'd begun seriously debating whether or not he wanted to know what sort of weird elven prayer to the gods it might have been, he had stopped feeling like he might cry.

It occurred to him that Ted might've done it entirely for his benefit, and he was even able to smile a little. Maybe it'd all been gibberish that _sounded_ elven. That would be so like the man, wouldn't it? Making up something just for the sake of cheering up a friend by taking his mind off of the problems at hand. It was complicated, which was just how Ted liked things, and it had worked, like so many of Ted's other complicated plans somehow did.

So as they stood and watched Cailan's broken body burn to ashes, Zevran having wandered off for one reason or another and Shale having gotten bored, Alistair turned to his fellow Warden with a sad little smile. "Thank you," he said, quietly.

"Hm?" Ted looked up and a slight frown creased his brows. "For what?"

"For coming here. And, erm, for earlier." Alistair rubbed the back of his neck.

The elf tilted his head with some mild confusion. "What'd I do earlier?"

"That... thing. That you said. With Duncan, I mean."

Ted thought on that for a second before he realized it. "Ohhh. That. The song, you mean?"

Huh? "I didn't-- what song?"

"It was supposed to be sung, not spoken. I think I might've done it wrong."

Alistair blinked. "You mean that was actual elvish?"

"Well, yeah?" Ted smirked a little. "What'd you think it was?"

Oh, so it had been something real. Wait, did that mean Ted had actually been doing it out of respect for Duncan, and not just to be a good friend? "A load of waffle to make me feel better?" he suggested, realizing he was expected to actually answer after a slightly too-long quiet moment.

"Hah. No. Leliana taught it to me. Then I asked one of the Dales what it meant, and he said it was a funerary thing. _Elder, your time has come, now I am filled with sorrow_..." The little mage trailed off and shrugged. "I thought Duncan deserved _something_ , y'know?"

A thought came to Alistair then. "What about King Cailan?"

Looking over at the pyre, Ted sighed quietly and answered with another shrug. "Kings are always mourned when they die. People _know_ about kings dying. And I didn't know the man well enough to say whether or not he'd earned my respect. Duncan had. Besides, we'd all be dead if it weren't for him."

Alistair was about to say something more - because Maker's _breath_ , it was one thing to think Ted had just been acting like a good friend, and another entirely when his reasons had been so much _more_ than that -  when Zevran joined them with a suddenness that was a bit startling. Sodding stealthy types. The assassin had a cheeky, triumphant grin on his face. "Am I interrupting a private moment, my dear Wardens?" he asked, sounding rather smug.

Ted rolled his eyes. "No, just a sappy one. So did you find it?"

"Find what?" Alistair interjected.

Zevran produced a large goblet from behind his back with a dramatic flourish. "Why, _this_ , of course."

_The_ goblet. The one for the Joining. It wasn't even dented, and the silver was barely even tarnished. It had just a bit of snow and frozen dirt on it, but no real damage to speak of. Alistair gawked openly.

"How did you even _find_ this?" the former Templar asked, taking it from Zevran's hands and examining it. He brushed the snow off of it with a gauntleted hand. "I spent half the day looking!"

Still grinning, Zevran made a sweeping sort of bow. "I have an eye for priceless treasures. Call it a gift, if you like."

Ted folded his arms over his chest and smiled wryly. "And this is why I bring a thief along. They're like magpies."

"I thought it might've been destroyed somehow during the attack, or the darkspawn might've nicked it, or even scavengers--" Alistair stopped himself, and peered at Ted. "How did you know he wouldn't just run off with it, anyhow?"

A look was exchanged between the two elves, and then Zevran stuck a hand in one of the many pouches at his belt, digging around. After a moment he fished out a fistful of assorted jewelry, precious stones, and expertly carved runestones.

"Because I let him loot what was left of the tents belonging to the Circle of Magi in exchange," Ted explained. "What's an old silver cup in comparison to that, right?"

"Oh, harder to carry, to be certain," Zevran assured him, stowing his treasures once more. "And rather more difficult to smuggle into a city completely unseen, for the sake of finding a merchant lacking in scruples to sell it to."

Ted gestured to the assassin and shot Alistair a glance that said _see, what did I tell you_. And Alistair found it in himself to regret bringing the assassin along just a little bit less.

"Come on, let's find Shale and head back to camp. It'll be dark soon and I'm freezing my ass off here," the mage said to break the proverbial ice, turning and stalking off while leaning heavily on his staff. Zevran lingered long enough to give Alistair an unreadable grin, before moving to follow their unofficial leader.

Hmph. He really could do without the bastard being so _cheeky_ , though.

 


	6. Save Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair would be more annoyed that his best friend were completely mad if it weren't for the fact that his insane ideas actually work out okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY this ran way long and it's the first time I've seperated one of these chapters into parts like this but without the seperation there'd be a lot of descriptions of travel and unpleasantness that aren't necessary (yet). 
> 
> Next stop, Redcliffe. And I bet that's gonna take a chapter or two to do, since there's a lot of neat scattered moments about it that I find cool. Plus that's about the time I started TAKING NOTES WHILE PLAYING. You'd think I would have done that from the start, but no, I'm retarded.

The little town of Haven had not only been a successful venture, but a fairly lucrative one in terms of treasures and trinkets. As much as they'd all shared a certain distaste for Brother Genitivi by the time they were done, they couldn't very well bring themselves to _kill_ the man, as Leliana likely would have suggested they do had she been there. The scholar might've turned out to be an opportunistic git, but he wasn't outright evil or bad. Just a bit too nice and idealistic for Thedas at large to not take advantage of him, that's all.

With a pinch of the ashes of Andraste safely stowed away in a vial, they carefully avoided waking the nearby dragon, and made their way back down from the mountain's peak where the village had been situated. Alistair was quietly glad they were leaving; with a town _that_ full of crazy, he didn't want to stay any longer than was necessary. They didn't need any more crazy rubbing off on them.

Plus, something about it was bothering Ted, he just knew it. The little mage had been getting steadily more irritable the more time they spent on the mountain. He'd even snapped at Zevran for having not brought proper lockpicking tools, in an impressive display of anger that he normally didn't direct at people who were a part of his group. The crazy dragon-worshipping townsfolk probably weren't helping, and their town likely wasn't either.

He'd wait till they were off the mountain to discuss it. It wasn't quite as _cold_ at their camp in the foothills, and he didn't want to have to spend another night of the Ferelden winter in a place with no shelter except the rickety buildings that reeked of human sacrifices. Even a tent was better than that. And at least back at camp he could make a nest out of his multitude of blankets and snuggle up in them warmly.

Alistair was so distracted by his own thoughts of a pile of warm blankets and a decent meal - Morrigan was _such_ a good cook, anything she made tasted wonderful, while anything that Ted made or contributed to would be cobbled together out of seemingly nothing and still manage to be hearty, so when the two of them worked together it meant being pretty much spoiled by good food at fairly regular intervals - that he didn't notice how unusually pale his fellow Warden had gotten until the smaller man stopped walking in favor of sitting himself down on a nearby fallen log, with thin, gloved fingers gripping the flaking bark tightly and the muscles in his neck and jaw taut as a bowstring.

That was worrisome.

"Gimme a minute," the little Warden said. The pain evident in his voice made Alistair realize all at once that he'd likely been wrong about what had been bothering the younger man.

"Erm," and he just _knew_ he was likely to get set on fire for asking, "you okay?" As soon as Alistair said it, he flinched in anticipation of whatever retribution might be coming his way.

He was surprised to hear Ted laugh weakly instead. "First time outside the Circle tower during the winter since I was six," the mage offered as a cryptic explanation, but then one of the hands clutching the bark moved instead to the man's bad leg and, _oh_. That made sense. Actually it made quite a bit of sense.

Annoyingly, while Alistair was still processing it, Zevran was already putting himself at the mage's side, kneeling down so that he might be at eye level. After looking the smaller man over, he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "You should have mentioned this to us sooner. Had we known, we might have aided you," he said, his tone scolding.

Well, that wasn't the right thing to do. Ted looked up to glare fiercely at the assassin. "I don't need your _pity_ , Zev," he snarled.

Alistair didn't think that was entirely fair to the Antivan elf. "It's not pity, you daft bastard, it's compassion. That thing friends have for each other?" He decided to continue before Ted had the chance to snap at him. "Oh, _fine_ , just go ahead and be difficult. Can you at least make it back to camp?"

Ted reluctantly backed down from arguing with Alistair for the sake of considering the former Templar's question. There was a pause where he let out a steadying breath and shifted, both hands on the log again, before he pulled out his staff and used it as a makeshift leaning post in order to get himself back on his feet. Zevran tried to reach out to help, but the mage pushed him aside stubbornly.

"If you're having that much trouble, Shale could carry you," Alistair suggested as he watched, wincing out of sympathy.

The golem huffed. "I am already made to carry much of its things, and now I shall be expected to carry _it_ as well? If it worries so about its fragile, squishy companion, then maybe it should be the one doing the carrying."

It took Alistair a second to realize that Shale was talking about him. "What, me? Maker, no. I'm flammable, and he's in a tetchy mood. Bad combination, trust me."

Shale looked at him blandly, and he just _knew_ he was being judged.

"Alistair, I'm a cripple, not a fucking invalid," the mage said with an annoyed sigh; when Alistair looked back at him, he was already on his feet again, though he was leaning much of his weight on his staff. Zevran was hovering around him and seemed to be pouting, probably about having not gotten the opportunity to play the chivalrous, dashing rogue who came to the rescue. "Let's just get back to camp."

" _Then_ will you let someone help you? Or at least let Morrigan take a look at it?" They weren't even a month into the Ferelden winter yet. Alistair just _knew_ that it would only get worse for the mage from there.

Ted ignored him, turning and starting off back down the path.

\---

"This is the _worst_ idea you've had up to now, by far," Alistair said, incredulous. "Just putting that out there."

The younger Warden grinned up at him around the mug of Antivan brandy he'd poured himself from Zevran's bottle of the stuff. "You really don't know much about me in my Circle days, do you?"

They'd gotten back to the camp, and Ted had promptly pulled up a stool to use as a chair by the nearest fire, not caring that Morrigan was busy cooking by said fire when he did so. Then he'd found another stool and used that one to prop his leg up on. The first thing he'd asked for was a lyrium potion.

Alistair had been a bit quizzical about that, but decided not to argue after Ted gave him a withering look instead of an answer. It had only served to add to the confusion when the next thing the shorter man had asked for had been Zevran's alcohol, before pulling apart the outer layer of his robe and taking off his left boot. Morrigan had arched one delicate brow at the display, pausing momentarily in her cooking to watch.

It wasn't until after he'd pulled the leg of his trousers up past his left knee - revealing just how unnaturally twisted and gnarled his leg was from that point downward - that the mage explained his plan. The brandy, he told them, was meant as a painkiller. He was going to re-break his leg, and then he was going to heal it properly.

"'Tis curious that you did not think to heal it when it happened, as you are far more skilled at healing magics than I," Morrigan commented, going back to the stew she was brewing. Her curiosity had obviously been piqued, however, as she was going about it a bit more distractedly than before.

With a snort, the elven mage waved the comment off dismissively. "I didn't exactly know _how_ to heal back then. I only learned that kind of thing after I left the Circle." Then he put his mug down and looked directly at Alistair. "Care to help?" There was a weird emphasis on the word _help_ , due to the way he almost sneered as he said it.

"Me? Help with healing?" The former Templar let out a poorly-stifled laugh at the idea.

Ted rolled his eyes. "No, genius. Help with breaking it."

" _What_?" Whatever thoughts Alistair had been entertaining ground to a very sudden halt. "You're joking."

"Look, I trust you, and you're the only one strong enough who won't outright powderize every bit of bone from the knee down."

That... was a fair point. It wasn't that Sten or Shale wasn't _capable_ of doing it, more that they'd do more damage than was necessary. Alistair could practically _feel_ the stares of everyone present, though, and he didn't much care for it. "...Must I?" he asked finally. The very notion made him a little queasy.

The mage gave him a flat look. "I could get Zev to do it." Zevran perked up at the sound of his name, and the former Templar had a sudden mental image of him taking the opportunity to feel up the shorter Warden, agile hands sneaking up underneath the rolled-up leg of Ted's trousers to--

"Alright, _fine!_ " Alistair said, a bit more loudly than he'd intended. He pointedly ignored Zevran's knowing smirk. Zevran could sod right off. Because Alistair wasn't about to let his best friend get molested by the resident scoundrel of the group.

\---

Later on, after the _crunch_ of bones being snapped like twigs was done with and three lyrium potions had been drained to make up for the energy lost to healing, and said best friend was pale and sweaty from exhaustion and pain, Alistair found that his hands were shaking too much to properly hold the bowl of stew that Morrigan had made him take. In that instant, he half-wished he'd let the assassin do it anyway. Hurting or killing people who were definitely in the wrong, or who had attacked them first, was one thing. Hurting someone close to you - deliberately! - was another thing entirely.

When Ted had recovered enough to push himself up and test his leg, it held his weight. He seemed amazed that his plan had worked; Alistair wondered just how long it had been since the mage had been able to stand on two properly working legs. Probably years. Ted had never told him just how it had gotten smashed like that.

Then, with a triumphant laugh, the mage darted off to tell - and show - everyone.

Morrigan expressed her astonishment that it had worked and suppressed a smirk. Leliana laughed with him, and then she squeaked when he hugged her. Bodahn made an awed comment about the wonders that magic could do. Zevran made a remark about flexibility that went a little over Alistair's head, though he assumed it was lewd, because Ted turned a little pink around the edges and flicked the assassin's forehead. Shale wondered aloud if this meant that it - Ted - might be carrying its own things in the future. Sten just watched, but Alistair thought he could see the ghost of a smile on the stoic Qunari's features. Even the Mabari hound got in on the fun, bowling Ted over and assaulting him with gleeful face-licking.

But not Alistair. The most he could offer was a thin smile. And when Ted came back around to him, he just _knew_ that the elf would make light of it. That was what Ted did - he noticed things. Which meant he would probably notice his fellow Warden's mood, and he'd ask why Alistair was acting the way he was, and he'd think it was _silly_ \--

"Hey." The warrior was startled out of his thoughts by Ted's voice, and looked up to find those big grey eyes scrutinizing him. Something seemed to click in the shorter man's head, and he grinned more brightly and honestly than Alistair had ever seen previously. "Thanks," he said.

There was no questioning, no probing about what was wrong, no teasing. And yet, Alistair felt just a little bit better all the same. Was he that easy to read? Or was Ted that good at reading people and knowing what they needed to hear? "Oh, erm. Don't mention it. What are friends for, right?"

"I really don't think re-breaking my leg counts as something friends would usually be obligated to do," the mage said, his demeanor softening a little. It was _weird_ to see that. But to be fair, it was also weird to have seen him bounding around the camp like an energetic puppy with only one boot on. "I mean it, Alistair. Thanks." There was such a strange sincerity to the younger Warden's voice that Alistair was a little touched by it.

"Yeah, well..." Maker's breath, Alistair could feel himself _blushing_. Why was he blushing? There was no reason to blush! This was Ted, a mage and an elf and a _man_ , not some pretty girl with a low neckline and soft hair and flowing skirts! He collected himself by inhaling slowly, then letting it all out in a heavy sigh. "Just... Don't make me do it again, okay? I mean it's not that I'm squeamish or anything, but let's just say I'm pretty sure I'd be rubbish at torturing people, after that."

Ted laughed, and it wasn't bitter, or cold, or manic. Then he ruffled Alistair's hair - the warrior squawked in protest and batted the little mage's hand away with a pout, making him snicker - and left the older Warden to stare after him as he wandered off to go talk to the others.

 


	7. Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair gets angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had writer's block for a while on this, mainly because I kept trying to write it from Zev's point of view. When I realized that wouldn't work, I tried it from Alistair's angle and suddenly OH HEY WORKING. Although I think it goes without saying by now, just in case: SPOILER ALERT. HERE BE SPOILERS.
> 
> This chapter is significantly less silly than the others. You knew it couldn't stay so lighthearted forever, admit it. I was going to break up the events of it into two or three chapters, but it flowed better as one, and in particular, some of the events I wanted to highlight turned out to not be strong enough to hold up their own chapters anyway. So it's for the best.

That winter, during the time they all spent at Redcliffe, exposed Alistair to a few things that he would consider first-time occurrances.

To start with, it was the first time he'd trusted anyone enough to tell them outright that he was the bastard son of King Maric. Usually it came up as a rumor before he even had the chance to say anything, if it was even relevant. And though he'd been a little hurt at having not been told previously, Ted hadn't reacted to the news itself with much more than a shrug. Alistair supposed that he shouldn't have expected the little mage of all people, cynical as he was, to judge him for a circumstance of birth. Still, though. It was a relief to know that his best friend didn't think any less of him for it.

It was also the first time he'd seen Ted lead a force of men into a proper battle. The sort of battle where everything seemed impossible, and there was a strong chance that they were all going to die. They hadn't. In fact, there had been very few casualties at all, thanks in no small part to Ted going about town beforehand to strong-arm people into joining the militia rather than cowering in their homes (impressively, he had still somehow managed to find the time to pick out a sword that some mercenaries had in their possession as being Sten's lost one, and berate them accordingly for it before giving it to the Qunari as casually as he might pass him a health potion). Bolstered numbers, plus a blacksmith whom Ted had partly intimidated and partly guilted into armor repairs, meant that they stood a better chance against the undead even _without_ proper leadership. With it, Redcliffe Village had come out of the battle relatively unscathed.

Then, it had been the first time he'd seen Ted properly, terrifyingly _angry_ , and not the sort of anger that would have the mage spitting fire and curses at the nearest poor human who was an easy target. No, that sort of anger was almost cute, sort of like a kitten with its hackles up. Largely ineffectual, too. It was easy enough to pick him up by the collar of his robes and let him flail and hiss and snarl for a bit until the flames of his anger sputtered and died. The little elf would be pouty and resentful for a bit, and there would be many a sharp glare thrown around until he was done being petty, but it wasn't anything to worry about.

This anger was different. It was cold, and sharp, and unforgiving. Tempered with the deep pain of betrayal until it was hard and merciless. Alistair only recognized it because he knew exactly what it felt like; it reminded him of the sort of hatred he had for Loghain. And it reminded him that he knew very little of what his friend had been through prior to the day he'd met him.

The man they'd found locked up in the cellar, battered and bruised, didn't seem the slightest bit harmful at first. He didn't even seem like the sort Ted could usually bring himself to be angry at; if anything, that Jowan bloke was the most pitiful apostate that Alistair had ever met. But as Ted coldly questioned him, with a certain forced crispness to every word he said, it became clearer and clearer that appearances could be deceiving.

When it came to light that Jowan - under Loghain's orders - had poisoned the Arl, it was then that Alistair lost all sympathy for the beaten, chained-up mage in the cell that had been asking after his lost love. After that, finding that Jowan was a blood mage only served to steel the former Templar further. For all his insistance, there was no way to know how much of what the imprisoned man said was a lie to make himself look better.

Having gathered all the information they needed, they turned away from the cell and began once again down the hall.

"But you can't just leave me here!" Jowan shouted after them, reaching out from the bars as far as his shackles would allow. "I could still help you! I can fix all of this, I swear!"

Ted ignored him. So did Alistair; to be honest, his jaw was tense from the effort it took to keep it clamped tightly shut. Zevran seemed to have decided it was best to offer no input, shadowing them silently until he was needed, which was probably a good thing considering how easy it would be to set either of the Wardens off right then. Even Shale didn't have any remarks to offer for some time.

However, this was still not the most startling first encounter with something that Alistair had during their time at Redcliffe. The one that would truly stick with him, challenging his assumptions and making his blood run cold, was still to come.

Perhaps it was innocence, or perhaps it was ignorance. But Alistair had never thought he would have to watch his best friend kill a child.

\---

The image was burned into Alistair's mind, and it haunted him all through their conversations with Eamon. Connor - the Arl's _son_ , his only child and his heir, mage or no - was dead, and they had killed him. No, Ted had killed him. Blood magic or no, the very thought made Alistair feel sick. It distracted him to the point that he only offered what would usually be considered token objections when the thought of him being _king_ \- something he normally would have recoiled from violently - was brought up.

Ted must have realized this, because after a glance at the warrior, he'd frowned and given the Arl no more than a "we'll see" on the subject. Alistair was thankful for the consideration, but it didn't stop him from feeling disgusted every time he so much as _looked_ at his fellow Warden.

His best friend had killed Connor. Put a knife in the boy's heart, with eyes as remorseless and cold as the tempered steel that they often reminded the older Warden of. Ted had _murdered_ a child. The blood was still on his robes, having since dried and turned the fabric slightly stiff. Isolde had sobbed and screamed and begged him not to do it, and yet he'd done it anyway; even when she'd asked to be left alone to do it herself, he had refused to let her, because he didn't trust her to go through with it.

Now she stood at her husband's side, grief-stricken and silent. Her eyes were unfocused, weary. Her only child, that she hadn't sent to the circle because she had been so afraid to lose him, was gone. Her baby, whom she had coddled and loved more than life itself... what justification could ever be enough for her?

And then there was Eamon, whose mourning for his son was much less pronounced, but Alistair could still tell the man was in pain. First Loghain's betrayal and the loss of Cailan, and now his son as well? The Arl was a strong man, but he was not invincible. Oh, and he would be the one who had the unenviable task of comforting Isolde, wouldn't he? Maker, it was like fate itself was determined to shit on the old man.

Alistair was so deep in his own thoughts that he was only half-aware of it when the Arl excused himself, realizing numbly that somewhere during the conversation - between Eamon making plans for the Landsmeet and Ted carefully _not_ saying anything against Jowan being hanged for his crimes - they'd been offered a place to stay if they so chose. The thought of going straight to bed and sleeping it all off was _quite_ tempting, if he were to be honest, but... no.

No, even emotionally exhausted as he was, he doubted he would be able to get any sleep. Not with so much guilt and disgust and anger gnawing at him. He shot a glance in the direction that Ted had headed off in, and swallowed heavily against the bile rising in his throat. The man he would call his best friend, capable of murdering a young boy whose voice hadn't even broken yet.

For a minute he just stood, weighing the options in his mind with his hands curling into tight fists at his sides. Then he exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself.

It didn't work. And so, he turned and followed the same path the other Warden had taken down the hall. He didn't know what he was going to say to the mage. All he knew was that he had to confront him. Blight or no, he wasn't sure he could go on if he had to do so with the knowledge that he was fighting alongside a monster.

\---

"Can I talk to you? About earlier?"

Ted stood in the doorway to the guest room he was staying in, having already stripped himself of his filthy robes and changed into a loose tunic and trousers by the time the warrior arrived. He stared up at Alistair with a peculiar look in his eye that the former Templar wasn't quite sure how to interpret, and for a moment it seemed like he might slam the door in the taller man's face. Then after a while he shrugged lightly, and stepped aside to allow his friend to enter. Alistair nodded once, curtly, before crossing the threshold.

Aware that people might listen in, Alistair waited impatiently for the little mage to close the door before he spoke. "You... how _could_ you?" he asked, that being the foremost thought in his head.

A crease formed in the smaller man's brow, and he frowned deeply at the door. Closing his eyes, he mouthed the word _fuck_ to himself and shook his head before turning to face the older Warden. When he opened his eyes once more and turned to face the older Warden, the look he gave Alistair was one of placation.

Alistair knew that look. He had seen it win arguments just as intimidation and guilt-tripping had, even if it hadn't won as many of them. And with that recognition, something in him cracked. Well, he didn't want to be bloody well _placated_. He'd had about enough manipulation for one blasted day.

"Alistair..." the mage began, and that blighted _tone_ was enough. Before even thinking about what he was doing, Alistair swung a hard right hook at his friend's face.

Even if the former Templar's plate hadn't still been on, the blow probably would have made Ted stagger. As it was, though, there was a sickening _crack_ upon impact, and another _thump_ when the mage's momentum sent him flying back into the door. Then he was sliding down towards the stone floor, shocked and more than a little dazed.

But Alistair caught him by the front of his tunic before he could fall, lifting the little mage up to eye level. There was a gasp of pain from the smaller man, but it went ignored, just as the fear and hurt and anger and confusion and _betrayal_ in those grey eyes did. He was far too angry to have room for pity and compassion.

"You killed a _child_ ," he snarled. "You could have saved him and you didn't even _try_."

Ted glared right back at him. "He was _possessed_ , damn it! There was nothing I could have done!"

"Bullshit," Alistair hissed. "You're a fucking _mage_ , you could have done something."

"Do you even _know_ how much _help_ I'd have needed? And _lyrium_?" Ted tried to wrench himself from his fellow Warden's grip, but Alistair saved him the trouble by letting go of him and allowing him to fall unceremoniously to the floor. He landed in an undignified heap, pushing himself up and using the wall to aid his ascent, while reflexively reaching up to touch the swelling on the left side of his face.

Frankly, the warrior was starting to feel ill again. And yet he couldn't back down. Wouldn't. "Then you could have taken him to the Circle, or even asked that mage bloke in the cellar... I don't know, _something_ , damn it!"

Ted's gaze jerked up in Alistair's direction at the mention of the Circle of Magi, and his lips pressed together into a thin, harsh line. "No. Neither of those is an option I'd consider."

"Neither of those? Yeah, the mage is a blood mage, I get that, but, the _Circle_ wouldn't even work?"

" _The Circle would have made him **Tranquil** , you ass!_" Ted roared.

And Alistair's anger receded in favor of him being a bit stunned.

"You don't know what it's like, okay? Don't think for one _damn_ minute that you know what it's like to be in my position, making a choice like that for a fucking _kid_!" Straightening to his full height (which wasn't much), the younger Warden glared hotly at Alistair. His voice shook with anger, but also regret, as well as a dozen other emotions that threatened to overtake the mage with every word he spat out. "The Circle isn't _nice_. It isn't _good_. They would have taken one look at him and seen that, even if we could fix the possession _now_ , Connor would never make the cut when it came to his Harrowing. If he didn't turn again on the way and force us to kill him, and if they didn't kill him _on the spot_ upon arrival, then they'd make him Tranquil without question."

Alistair gulped, and the sick feeling returned. This time, though, it was for a different reason from before.

Unchallenged, Ted continued his rant. "Even if they didn't? If they miraculously let him keep his fucking humanity, and gave him a chance against _all_ odds as well as their better judgement? They wouldn't let him come out to see his mom. They wouldn't let him have Eamon's lands. He wouldn't even be able to come out to _visit_ his family, and he'd be lucky if they got to so much as _write_ to him without it being screened. His life would be a living _hell_ , because in the Tower, there aren't any secrets. Everyone would _know_ he had been possessed. Every mage, every Templar, would see him as a disaster waiting to happen. They would assume he was a maleficar from the start, and treat him accordingly.

"I _saved_ him," the mage said finally, sounding so tired and broken that it almost hurt, "just like I'd ever want to be saved if I were in his position. But don't think, for even a _second_ , that it was even _remotely_ easy."

For a couple of minutes afterward, all was quiet. Ted didn't look like he was about to cry, but Alistair almost wished he would, because it would be more bearable than how terribly _weary_ he looked as he summoned up the energy to heal his own face; it was a bit of a wonder how he'd even managed to speak, let alone rant, with the damage that the former Templar had likely done just from that one blow.

The silence was awkward, but Alistair didn't know how to fill it. An apology didn't feel like something that would be remotely adequate in this case. Here he was, a big brute in armor, smacking around a scrawny mage. All because he'd been angry about something he didn't understand. How did that make him any better than the Templar order he'd left behind when he'd become a Warden?

It was Ted who finally spoke up again, sighing quietly and rubbing at his healed-but-sore face. "I know you guys are listening at the door, y'know," he said, and Alistair looked up and blinked a bit in confusion.

That confusion was dispelled when the door opened a crack and he saw three pairs of eyes peering right back. Well, four, if you counted Shale.

"It was Zevran's idea," Leliana said immediately, turning faintly pink. The Antivan rogue in question grinned impishly, and Morrigan rolled her eyes while trying to look like she didn't care.

Wait, if it was Zevran's idea, did that mean the assassin thought he'd been following Ted to his room to-- Alistair felt like someone had suddenly lit his face on fire. That cheeky son of a whore.

"Alright, that's it," Ted announced suddenly, stepping forward to take Alistair by the arm and lead him towards the door. "Everybody out. I know this place is big enough for everyone to have their own damn rooms all to themselves."

"Are you quite certain that you have both calmed down enough to sleep? I could give either of you a nice massage, perhaps, to assist you--"

" _Goodnight, Zevran,_ " the smaller Warden said, effectively cutting off the rogue while he ushered Alistair out the door at the same time.

But Alistair did not wish to be gotten rid of just yet. There was still something bothering him, and he stuck his boot in the doorway as he was urged out into the hall to keep it from closing on him entirely. "Wait, erm, hold on just a moment--"

The little mage gave him a bland look. "Alistair, just go to bed."

That stung a bit for some reason. "But you don't even know what I was going to say--"

"You were going to apologize," came the all-too-correct assumption. Either he was predictable, or Ted knew him too well. "Don't, okay? I don't blame you. Now, _go to bed_."

His foot was pushed out of the way, and then the door was shut a bit too sharply in his face, nearly hitting him in the nose. After that, Alistair was left in the hall with the bard, the assassin, the witch, and Shale all giving him these... _looks_. The specifics were all different, of course, but between the four of them, they were certainly succeeding at making him feel like he was being _judged_.

Oh, wonderful. Now he was going to go to bed feeling like he'd made more of an arse of himself than he normally did. So much for relieving himself of his guilt so he could get a good night's sleep.

 


	8. Witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The things Zevran's imagination could conjure up probably pale in comparison to his real nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyoooo. Zev's a fun one to write, as always. My depiction of the Fade is far closer to that which is found in the books, rather than what's in the game. I feel like what's ingame pales in comparison to what the Fade COULD be, so I played with it quite a bit.
> 
> I have so stopped caring about how long these damn things get. THEY GET AS LONG AS THE MUSES WANT THEM TO GET.

The sun shone brightly through the one lone window located high in one of the basement's walls, illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the stale air. It was otherwise very dark in the cellar, however, and that meant that Zevran's eyes had trouble adjusting well enough to see the men who lurked just out of sight in the shadows. If it were anyone else, Zevran would have been able to track them by the subtle sounds that their every breath and every movement might make.

But these men were Crows, skilled in the art of stealth. When they moved, they moved silently. Thus they were impossible to hear, as well as impossible to see. And that set Zevran's teeth on edge.

_I will not break_ , he told himself. _I will prove myself worthy, and then I will be a Crow_. It was not the first time he had reminded himself of that, stripped down to his smalls and strung up on the rack like any other torture victim. That was part of the test, he was told. If he could withstand the torture that the Crows were capable of putting him through, then he would easily be able to take anything that their enemies might subject him to, as well. It made sense. Not that making sense meant it was less unpleasant.

The torture, he figured, he could probably take. And so far he'd done so quite admirably, if he were to judge it. The beatings, those were fine. Nothing worse than anything he'd experienced previously. The whippings, well, what boy growing up in Antiva outside of the comfortable trappings of nobility _hadn't_ had a good whipping or two? Even the racking wasn't _so_ bad. He hadn't been through anything very similar to it before, but after a while the constant throb of pain through every part of his overextended body had gone on long enough that so long as he didn't move much, it wasn't unbearable.

No, what really, truly bothered him - aside from not being able to see his torturers to try and puzzle out what they might be thinking - was that it was so ridiculously _hot_ in that blasted cellar. And he was situated directly in the path of that one little ray of Antivan summer sun that poured in through the window, which made it significantly harder to ignore it. If it were only that the room felt almost like a sauna, then that would probably be fine. But the direct sunlight made him feel as if whatever part of him was exposed to it at a given moment was _baking_.

Not to mention the fact that he was sweating profusely enough that the little beads of perspiration running over his skin made him distinctly uncomfortable. His fingers twitched with the urge to wipe it away, but there was nothing he could actually do about it. So he just exhaled irritably through his nose and closed his eyes, attempting to ignore it.

He was startled by the sudden crack of a whip, near enough for him to feel the sharp change in air pressure, but the whip itself didn't so much as hit the table he was bound to. It made him flinch slightly against his will, and he mentally cursed his lapse in self-control (as well as the jab of pain that shot through his battered body at the movement) when he heard one of his captors guffaw somewhere behind his head.

"I think I saw 'im flinch that time," the man said, stepping into view. He had a cruel smile with crooked teeth, and foul breath that reeked of ale. He was also an elf like Zevran, but in the Crows, that meant little.

"Maybe," said his other captor, and Zevran craned his neck to see the second Crow - another elf, older and more experienced and rather more cold than the first - moving towards one end of the table.

Then he had to grit his teeth to keep from making a sound as his bonds tightened, stretching him out even further than he already had been.

Zevran could hear the smile in the older Crow's voice when he spoke. "Hah. We'll make you scream yet, apprentice," he said, almost cooing. Almost fond. Zevran wasn't sure these men were still capable of fondness. Then again, he wasn't sure if he was still capable of it some days, himself.

"We're not going to go _easy_ on you," the first one said with a faint slur to his voice, giving Zevran a pat on his exposed arm. "Trust me." He wanted to jerk away from the contact, but he didn't let himself do so. That would be weakness.

Instead, he laughed. It was a strained laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "No, I wouldn't want you to... _ngh,_ hold back. I'd be disappointed if you... did." Speaking was difficult. Hurt a bit. But that was fine. He could take it. He had been able to withstand everything else so far.

"Ohoho, this one has _spirit!_ " the first Crow with the poor hygiene, grinning wickedly. "A shame we have to break him."

No. He would not break. He would face this trial as he had faced others before, and he would _not_ falter. Pain was fleeting. Wounds would heal. _I will not break_.

" ** _ZEVRAN!_** "

A gust of searing hot air rushed past in the wake of a ball of flame, which struck the older of his two captors square in the chest and sent him flying backward. The other jerked back and swore, pulling out his daggers as his eyes darted around to try and catch sight of the attacker. Zevran tried to shift enough that he might be able to see, but it was no use.

The remaining Crow, however, was perfectly able to see. And Zevran watched him pale and swallow heavily. "Andraste's flamin' ass..."

"Nope, just me," answered the new voice. Zevran recognized that voice... and yet when he tried to recall its origin, the memory escaped him, like the fading remnants of a dream.

For just an instant, he felt like he might be dreaming - like he was living out a memory, playing his part in events long past - but then the feeling was gone as quickly as it had come to him, and he shook his head as if that might help to clear it. His mind was surely playing tricks on him, making him go mad from the long hours of torture and pain in spite of his resistance. That had to be it.

Except the voice he'd written off as a hallucination didn't go away. "Zev, it's me. I'll get you out, I swear," it said, in an odd mixture of barely-contained rage and thinly-disguised worry.

And whatever the owner of that voice was doing, it was clearly scaring his captor. It was possibly also the reason that the temperature of room had climbed higher still. The now-sobered Crow, panic in his eyes, staggered back a little further. He had a white-knuckled grip on his blades, and Zevran assumed that it was more than just the heat that had him sweating so profusely.

"W-what do you want?" the Crow stammered. "Coin? I-I can get you more coin than you could ever imagine! W-what about prestige? Power? I can get you those!"

Zevran felt the fireball before he saw it, and the heat of it was so intense that he instinctively turned his head away from it, squeezing his eyes shut against the glare. By the time he looked again, his captor was little more than a charred husk.

The attacker sighed with exasperation. "Don't any of these retards know I'm a _Harrowed_ mage?" And when he stepped forward into Zevran's line of sight, a face - and a _name_ , one Zevran clearly remembered, along with so many other things - was finally provided to go with the voice.

"Teo," he breathed, half-relieved and half-confused. Why was the mage in Antiva? ...wait, why was _Zevran_ even in Antiva? Hadn't he been in bitterly cold Ferelden, not his warm former home?

The Warden gave him a once-over, cringed at the sight, and came to his side to start undoing his bonds. Once he was freed, it felt like every muscle in Zevran's body was trying to curl in on itself, like a cut bowstring, and he bit the inside of his mouth to keep himself quiet. Dream or no, everything still _felt_ very real.

It was a good thing, then, that the dear robed Warden was an excellent healer. First there was a hand on his back, helping him to sit up, and then he felt the healing magic wash over him. Zevran let out a sigh of relief, leaning into that hand without thinking. The mage's presence helped to ground him, giving him something to focus on besides the lingering ache of his healing injuries. "I did not expect to see you here," he said after a pause.

"In Antiva, or in the Fade?" Teo smirked a little bit, but there was something off about it. Something almost sad. Then with a simple gesture of his hand, he somehow managed to conjure... _clothes_? Out of nowhere? The assassin was fairly certain that even mages couldn't accomplish that. "That's where we are - the Fade. The Dalish call it the Beyond. How much do you remember?"

The Fade. That explained the surreal turn that things had taken, as well as the strangeness of Teo's newfound abilities and sudden strength of his old ones. "That would make this all a bad dream then, yes?" Magic was not something Zevran was well-versed in.

The little Warden - who had a strange sort of _presence_ that he didn't usually possess, Zevran realized, though he would be unsure of how to describe it if asked - rolled his eyes and handed the assassin the conjured set of clothes. Simple leathers, much like he normally wore. "Yes, yes it would. My best guess is, the demons wanted to do something that would put you in a position you'd give anything to be free of."

Zevran chuckled. "Then they chose their memory poorly. There's nothing quite like a good _racking_ to get the blood pumping, eh?"

Teo frowned at him, obviously not believing a word. Maybe he was just perceptive, or maybe he knew something Zevran didn't about the Fade that invalidated the lie. Actually, he probably _did_ know things Zevran didn't, at least when it came to the Fade and demons. "...You didn't answer my question," he said finally, tearing his gaze away.

"Hm~? Which one, my dear Warden?" Meanwhile, it would probably be good to at least throw on the tunic. Dream realm or no, imaginary protection would still be protection of a sort should anything decide he would make a fine snack. He wondered idly if his captors' daggers hadn't been warped and melted by Teo's magical flames, but a glance at one of the bodies revealed that the charred husks were no longer those of elves, but of demons. Lesser ones, but demons nonetheless. Fascinating! Would it take a mage to defeat them every time, or would it be sufficient to stab their imagined forms with imagined knives?

"I asked you how much you remembered." The mage didn't make any move to help Zevran get dressed, even stepping back to give him room. So this wasn't going to be one of those erotic sorts of dreams where he seduced the young Warden? How disappointing.

Still, the question had him hesitating for a moment as he considered it. "We... had arrived at the Circle of Magi, and it was infested with demons. You yelled at a very distinguished-looking Templar for a bit, we met the mage Wynne - who is _very_ well-preserved for her age, I might add - and then we set off to ascend the tower."

"And then?"

"Then there were demons, and..." Zevran blinked. "...Actually, I do not know. We were to face a rather imposing-looking demon and then, like _that_ \--" he snapped his fingers for emphasis "--I was here."

Teo nodded slowly. "Sounds right," he said, though it wasn't clear whether it was directed at the assassin or himself. "Can you, uh... handle shit from here? I need to go find Alistair and anyone else who's still alive so I can be sure they'll wake up once I kick the sloth demon's ass."

"If they still have bodies to return to," Zevran pointed out. By then he was already pulling on his boots; he had a lot of practice when it came to getting dressed quickly.

Apparently, that notion wasn't something Teo hadn't considered, because the mage winced when Zevran mentioned it. "Trying _not_ to think about that, Zev."

Of course. And he was probably also trying not to aknowledge that his concern for the bastard prince was obvious by the way he'd worded his statement as _Alistair and anyone else who's still alive_. Zevran snickered at the idea. "In any case, I will be fine, dear Warden. I am not so weak-willed as you might think."

"Right, because you've shown yourself to be _so_ good at resisting temptation so far." It was a jab, but a half-hearted and friendly one. Teo didn't mean it. "Stay safe."

Zevran laughed. "Go forth and save your prince, Teo," he said with a dismissive wave.

It was immensely gratifying to see the little mage sputter and blush at that. Possibly a bit too much so. Zevran was thinking he would have to re-think his assessment of himself as being incapable of fondness, for surely it was fondness of a sort that he was feeling for the young Warden when he had to suppress the urge to kiss the shorter man before he left; the only thing that stopped him was the thought of accidentally leading to Teo's death through distraction.

Ah, well. Perhaps he could take this opportunity to experiment with whether or not someone who wasn't a Mage could kill things with mundane means such as evisceration or a good old-fashioned garroting in the Fade. Who knew when he would be waking up from this dream, after all? Best to take advantage of it while he still could.

 


	9. Closer to the edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Circle is fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I thought it would, sorry. I was debating whether to split it and its other half into two chapters or not, and in the end I decided that splitting it was probably for the best, so this is just the first half of the circle tower stuff (not including Zev's fade-dream). 
> 
> The last part was fun, though. Like really fun. I enjoyed writing it. Hopefully it's just as fun to read as it was to write.

Alistair really, _really_ hated blood mages. And demons.

No, he didn't want to talk about his demon-induced dream. He didn't even want to think of it. It had been stupid of him to believe any of it, anyway, and he'd been a fool to let himself be taken in by such a blatantly false vision. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. If Ted hadn't come along, he would still be stuck in the Fade, all smiles and blissful ignorance while the life was slowly sapped from him.

And _then_ there had been that poor Templar bloke they'd met on the way up. Cullen, his name was. Alistair didn't know him, but Ted seemed to. However, Ted having known him only made it that much worse.

From what Alistair gathered, Cullen had been a good man. One of those rare Templars who honestly meant well, and who would step in when a little mage with a limp was getting shoved around. At least, that was what Ted was saying, what he was _shouting_ , slamming into a magical barrier that stood between him and Cullen with his fist; the Templar that Alistair saw inside that shield was a broken shell of a man, trembling violently and barely coherent.

Cullen didn't even recognize who they were. He said that the maleficarum must have dug deeply into his memories to find a vision of Ted to torment him with, but he didn't know Wynne.

The little elf didn't like that a bit. For quite some time, possibly a half hour or more, Ted made a desperate attempt at bringing Cullen back to reality. Shouting at him to convince him, much like Ted tended to shout at everyone that needed convincing of something. Yet the Templar only grew more distraught as time went on, until he was almost in tears.

Just how much time had these blood mages had to rip his mind to shreds? Days? Weeks? Or had it been mere hours? However long it had been, it was clear to Alistair that his fellow Warden's attempts to fight back against Cullen's madness with _logic_ weren't working. If anything, they were making it worse, or maybe it could have more to do with how Ted became more upset himself as he continued.

"Cullen, you weren't _like_ the others. Remember Solona? She _adored_ you, because you treated her like a person, and you were the only one that did!" Ted's voice cracked on the last word of that statement; to a mage, something like that must have meant quite a bit. "She was a spirit medium, and you made her feel like there could still be normal people out there who didn't think she was a monster--"

But the Templar would have no more of it. "Enough visions! If anything in you is human..." Cullen trailed off for a moment, and made a choked sound. "...Kill me now, and stop this _game!_ You broke the others, but I will _stay strong!_ " Then he whimpered something that might've been words, or might have just been broken little vocalisations; Alistair wasn't close enough to hear it clearly.

A few times, Alistair had seen Ted kill someone out of kindness, rather than let them live with their plight. He knew, however, that the mage would not kill Cullen, nor order anyone else to do so. Frankly, Alistair didn't know that he'd be able to either, and what he'd seen of Wynne suggested that the kind old woman would much rather find some way to save the stricken Templar than grant him the mercy of a quick death.

Just because he'd never seen Ted have a proper breakdown didn't mean that the little mage wasn't capable of one. Really, if anything could put him on the path towards having one, it would be this. But how could Alistair stop this before it escalated further? He didn't even know where to begin.

In the end, he didn't have to, because Zevran - never one to be crippled by indecision - did it for him. The assassin stepped forward, and gently set a hand on Ted's shoulder. "Teo," he said.

It made the smaller elf jump a little bit, but when he whipped around to see who had touched him, his expression went from distraught and startled to confused.

Zevran gave his shoulder a light squeeze, and met his gaze with an uncharacteristic sadness. "There is little to be done for him now, yes? Can we not worry about such matters _after_ we have taken care of the blood mages responsible?"

Ted scraped his teeth over his lower lip and nodded. "Yeah, I think... yeah. We'll do that." He sounded slightly hoarse; as the shorter Warden straightened and turned back in the direction of the door that would put them back on track, it would be a blatant lie if Alistair said that the sight of his best friend in such a state _didn't_ tug at his heartstrings.

\---

There were yet more blood mages waiting for them on the way to the top of the tower, but more disturbingly, there were an alarming number of _bodies._ Mages and templars alike had been sacrificed to feed the blood mages' demented spellwork, and some of them had gone as far as to let themselves be turned into abominations before the party's very eyes.

Just because it wasn't the first time he'd seen it didn't mean that the sight made Alistair feel any less ill. And by then, he was beginning to really empathise with Ted's decision in regards to Connor back at Redcliffe. The boy likely would have been killed on sight, had he been brought into this mess. It had been hard enough for the younger Warden to talk the Knight Commander down from the Right of Annulment; showing mercy to a possessed apostate, even one that was only a child, would have probably been out of the question.

As yet another skirmish with the rogue mages came to an end, Alistair was cringing at the sheer amount of blood he would later have to clean off of his armor and out of his underclothes when quite suddenly, Ted stomped over to him and thrust a lyrium potion in his face. The movement was so violent that Alistair had to actually jerk back to keep from being smacked with the blighted thing.

Wait, why was Ted trying to give him a lyrium potion anyway? "...huh?"

"Templar," Ted said simply, dangling the potion in front of his face. The little motes of magic glinted prettily from within the thick, bright blue liquid. It was a strong potion; probably one of the elf's own.

The former Templar boggled. "... _what_?" Was the mage implying what Alistair _thought_ he was?

Apparently, yes. Ted rolled his eyes and huffed. "Look, this is just going to get harder as we keep going, and Wynne says we're almost to the top level. I don't think the Litany of Adralla will cut it; we need an anti-mage. That would be you."

Alistair eyed him warily. "You _do_ know lyrium is addictive and generally bad for you, right?"

"It's only the one potion. One potion does not make an addiction." With a frown, the smaller Warden prodded him in the chest with the potion bottle. "I'll stop you before you get to the point that you're putting lyrium in your fucking _coffee_ like me, alright? You're the only one who can do the Templar thing, so. Do the thing."

This was a terrible idea. And Alistair was an idiot, clearly, because he actually sort of _agreed_ with it. A gullible idiot, to boot. Reluctantly, he took the potion from Ted's hand and examined it. He knew what it looked like - he worked with mages, he'd been put on potion duty before - he was just stalling.

"...Well? Come on." Of _course_ Ted knew he was stalling. He _would_ be able to figure that sort of thing out, the blasted know-it-all.

No use just standing about and gawking at it, then. Alistair pulled the stopper off, took a quick breath to brace himself, and knocked the potion back in one pull.

Even being mentally prepared for it, the initial sensation when the lyrium took effect still sent a shiver through him. He was suddenly more alert, more _aware_ of everything, and it was like he could suddenly feel every shift of cloth underneath his armor and every change in the air pressure around him when anyone so much as _breathed_ , and everything was so much _brighter_ , and every sound he heard was so much _sharper_.

And that wasn't even getting into magic. Because how could he ever describe being able to feel magic in the air, see the patterns it made out of the corner of his eye, or hear the distinct hum of its presence all around him? How could he tell someone with a straight face that he could _smell_ the magic that permeated the tower, or that the taste of it lingered on his tongue as much as the distinctive tang of the lyrium potion itself did?

Lyrium always made the the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It was thrilling, but it was also slightly terrifying. Which made it that much more thrilling, in a way. Except it wasn't the sort of thrilling that being caught up in an exciting battle was. After all, it was one thing to be able to experience _magic_ with all of his senses, but also happened to be one of those who could reach out and _smother_ that magic once he could find it.

Though most of the time when he was on lyrium, Alistair was much more likely to try and smell or touch the magical thing when he found it. Because magic was just so lovely, and he rather liked magic, as well as the ones that used it. It was all pretty and enticing, and having to smother it was usually upsetting (or at least it had been when he'd been training as a Templar) when he'd much rather pet it. Not that one _could_ pet magic. Magic was not a cat to be petted.

Ted cleared his throat nearby, and Alistair's thoughts were dragged back to the present. He looked at the mage, and then maybe he might have looked at him for a bit longer than he'd intended to, because Ted had started to frown at him.

"...erm," he _erm_ med oh-so-intelligently. Mages were practically made of magic. Ted especially. The air around the little elf practically sang with it. Alistair then wondered what a mage whose blood was probably half-lyrium would taste like if he were to lick said mage.

Then the mage in question sighed and smacked his palm into his forehead. "Right. Never giving you lyrium again."

"...prob'bly..." Alistair mumbled, blinking. Then he had a thought, and that thought made him giggle. "Hehe, you'd be like... _tasty_ stuff, I bet."

From somewhere that seemed far-off - because it echoed, and the room hadn't echoed before, or maybe it had and they were just little echoes that he'd only just started to notice - Zevran burst into a fit of cackling.

"Oh, my dear Warden," the Antivan elf said once his laughter had subsided, wiping a tear from his eye, "I think it would be far better if we _always_ gave him lyrium."

 


	10. The Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair's brain is unhelpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY I ENDED IT IN SUCH A BAD SPOT. BUT IT RAN SO LONG. SHIT. 
> 
> This is why I don't write that much actual fighting into the thing. It gets stupidly long and then this happens. For the record, this fight took me something like three tries on normal. Yes, I suck.

The walls were decorated with blotches of foul-smelling corrupted matter, like a rotten and fleshy moss. And the best word Alistair could come up with for it was _squidgy_.

He was fairly certain that wasn't actually a word, but it was what came to mind, and he told Ted so. He also might've giggled a bit when he said it; his thoughts were a bit muddled, but the glare that the little elf gave him was decidedly unimpressed. Zevran snickered though, so that was a plus. Maybe? Or was Zevran laughing _at_ him rather than with him.

And why was Wynne looking at him like that? Was that pity? Pff, he was _fine_. He didn't need to be coddled just because lyrium had made him a little loopy. He could handle himself. He was a Grey Warden, and that meant he was charged with stopping the Blight, and you only got to be a Warden if you could handle anything that life threw at you. That included lyrium. So she needn't worry.

No one needed worry, he thought as they came to the top of a flight of stairs. Alistair had handled himself before on lyrium and he could do it again. He was even doing so more admirably this time than he had the last time. He knew where his feet were! He wasn't trying to lick the mage! That was an improvement, damn it, and he deserved a cookie for it. Maybe one of Sten's.

He heard Ted call his name, and that snapped him briefly out of his thoughts. Maker, maybe they were right to be worried. The son of the fabled Maric the Savior, proving himself to be an incompetent boob by zoning out when there was fighting to be done.

Instinctively he whipped around towards the source of the sound, but stopped himself from charging into the battle as he usually might when he rembered just what he had been given the lyrium for. Steeling himself, he reached out with his mind as he'd been trained to do, and grasped at whatever magic lay in that direction. Once he found it, he latched onto it and _pulled_.

It felt different from the Circle mages that had helped him to train; it felt vile and foul in his mental grasp. Blood magic, he thought, felt like taking hold of a live, slimy eel.

He almost recoiled and let go of it. _Almost_. But not quite. When he opened his eyes - he hadn't realized he'd closed them while he'd been concentrating, Andraste's flaming _sword_ he had gotten clumsy at this Templar thing - he saw that both Ted and Wynne were standing well back from the knife-wielding maleficar, whose had suddenly gone quite pale, and whose eyes were darting around in hopes of his captor as he reeled from the disruption of his spellwork.

Before the blood mage Alistair had caught could recover, he gathered his will and lashed out against them with a powerful smite.

The enemy mage staggered with the force of the attack, and in that instant, his guard was completely down. As far as giving everyone else an opening went, it was more than adequate; Zevran was the one to dive into the fray for the killing blow. His red steel blade swung in a graceful arc, and severed the blood mage's head neatly from his shoulders.

The head fell in one direction, the body in another. No demon would be particularly tempted to possess _that_ corpse anytime soon, Alistair knew, so he allowed himself to feel a moment's relief.

After he'd taken a minute to gather his senses again, he realized that Ted was staring at him. And, yeah, he was a bit high, but he could've sworn for a second that maybe his best friend looked a bit _scared_ of him.

That was weird. Maybe it was just his imagination. Anyway, it seemed like Ted had realized that he'd been caught staring, because he looked away quickly and cleared his throat. "Everyone okay?" he asked of the group.

Zevran, Alistair, and Wynne each nodded or murmured their assent, and their diminuitive leader seemed to relax a little.

"Good. Uldred's probably gonna be a thousand times worse," he said, giving Alistair one last puzzlingly unreadable look before continuing onwards, everyone else following behind him like a group of ducklings.

As it turned out, he wasn't completely wrong in his assessment.

\---

Uldred was crazy. That much was pretty obvious, even without his insane monologue which Alistair largely ignored (heard one crazy bloke monologue about how amazing he is, heard 'em all). The squidgy stuff that had been smeared over the walls before was practically covering them in the room where the mad mage was located.

And all around the room, Alistair could see the remaining Circle mages that Uldred had bound by both mystical and mundane means for the sake of bleeding them. Several of them had already been bled completely dry. Another handful had been turned into unwilling hosts for lesser demons that still lurked in the room, bringing to mind a comparison to circling carrion birds. At least First Enchanter Irving was still alive, along with a few scattered other mages that weren't in any shape to aid in their own rescue.

The smell of decay and death and blood hung thickly in the air, and with the additional perk of being able to feel and taste and sense the amount of twisted magic that had been performed there, it took some effort to resist the urge to be violently ill. A glance at the others told him that while Zevran had donned his calm, cold assassin mask, Wynne was only barely keeping it together when it came to the brutal murders of these people she'd probably known for years. And Ted, with his jaw tense and his staff held in a tight grip, had his eyes fixed on Uldred.

Following the other Warden's gaze, Alistair realized that he probably should have been paying a bit more attention. Because what may have been Uldred once, was a man no longer.

Maker, he'd never seen a demon _that_ big.

Everything was still for a horrifying moment. The demon looked between them, sizing each of them up in turn with its black, beady eyes, and gave them a grotesque, toothy grin that exposed sharp and blackened teeth jutting out of rotten gums. Then its hulking form began to shift as it took a slow step forward.

They didn't bother to see what direction the demon might be heading in. " ** _Move!_** " Ted shouted, breaking into a run and hastening to conjure up an offensive spell.

Alistair didn't need to be told twice. Nor, it seemed, did Zevran. While Alistair was still gathering his will (and his wits) for another round of Templar-ing, the assassin was already darting forward, slicing viciously at the abomination's legs with his wicked blades.

Any other creature would have fallen, clutching at its ruined legs and screaming. The demon, however, barely even flinched. It turned its great ugly head towards its comparatively tiny assailant, and lifted a massive, clawed foot to try and crush the assassin like an annoyingly bitey insect. Zevran only barely managed to duck out of the way, narrowly avoiding being pulverised and muttering a curse in his mother-tongue as he reached for a vial of acid.

The message was clear: the thing that had once been Uldred had a thick hide. Then it started gathering power into its huge and gnarled hands from both its own wounds and the many that had been inflicted upon its victims, and it quickly became evident that its physical advantages were far from the only threat it posed.

Alistair grit his teeth and reached out again for that magic, taking hold of it mentally. It jerked back against his grasp, resisting, and the demon itself swung itself around to face the former Templar with a speed that seemed unnatural for such a large thing. It snarled at him, baring its hideous teeth.

He snarled back, and hit it with the most powerful smite he could muster. It screeched in anger and pain, and he barely had time to raise his shield and brace himself before it took a swing at him.

The former Templar had taken blows from rage demons, mad people, darkspawn, drakes, ogres. He'd even sparred with Sten once. But the force of that one hit from the demon felt like it was going to snap his arm. The impact rang through his shield all the way from his wrist, along his arm, through his shoulder, and even down through his legs and into his ankles.

Alistair did not, however, falter. In that split second's worth of shock that the demon experienced at having not squished the pathetic mortal into a gelatinous smear with powder instead of bones, he roared a battlecry and batted aside the thing's huge meaty hand with his dented shield, slashing at its forearm with his sword. The silverite cut quite a bit deeper than Zevran's red steel had, and the demon howled in rage.

After that, several things happened in rapid succession. The demon tried to attack Alistair again, but suddenly there was a magical shield in the way, and a glance to the side told the former Templar that it was Wynne channeling the spell. It also told him that the lesser demons which had been prowling around the room had been mostly taken care of, their smouldering corpses littering one end of the room.

Well, that explained what the mages had been doing, at any rate.

At that point he spotted Zevran on top of a bookcase (how did the sneaky bastard manage to climb a bookcase so quickly? Alistair knew the assassin was agile, but he was partly convinced that Zevran must be part squirrel by then) with his flask of acid, just before said flask of acid was lobbed at the demon's head.

It shattered, and had the apparently desired effect of further enraging the thing, as it shrieked in agony and flailed blindly in the direction of the bookcase. Zevran once again escaped certain death by nimbly jumping down and landing lightly on the bloodied tile floor, mere moments before the entire bookcase and all its mostly-ruined (squidgy-fied was the thought that came to mind for Alistair, before he reminded himself that squidgy was not a word) contents were sent crashing down.

Blinded by acid and _beyond_ angry, the demon started gathering up its will again for another spell. Alistair belatedly realized that his own reserves of power were running a bit low for another go at spell-breaking, and even if they weren't, Wynne's shield was in the way.

Then a fireball came flying at the demon from the far end of the room and hit it square in the face, making it recoil and bellow in rage. Upon seeing the source of the spell, Alistair had to grin.

Ted's robes were bloodied, burnt, and torn. His hair was slightly loose. And he was already pulling together another spell by the time the demon rounded on him. It started trying to cast something of its own, and the little mage spat a string of words that Alistair couldn't quite make out - they might as well have been in another _language_ \- that stopped the demon in its tracks for an instant.

Was _that_ the Litany of Adralla? No wonder the others had been so insistent about it.

But even though they could stop the thing's foul _magic_ , they couldn't stop it physically quite as easily. The triumph of having disrupted its spell was short-lived as the demon growled and stormed in the direction of the little mage, taking a blind swing at him that just barely missed swatting him across the room. Taking the hint, Ted immediately bolted into a run, his next spell abandoned for the sake of not being pulverised. And the second Wynne dropped her shield around Alistair, the former templar was in motion, charging at the demon.

This bit, he was good at. Being the distraction. He swung his sword at the thing's leg, the one that Zevran had already laid into earlier. Then, once he'd gotten its attention, he smacked into his own shield with a _clang_ that echoed through the huge chamber and whistled sharply.

"Oi, ugly! Come pick on something a bit closer to your own size, yeah?" he yelled, grinning broadly when it turned to him. _Yeah, ignore the mage who's winding up a spell and the assassin that's climbing up another bookcase. That's it._

It seemed to be working. The demon couldn't exactly _see_ Alistair when half its face had been burnt off and the other half had been splashed with Zevran's acid, but the noise held its interest all the same. For good measure, he picked up a bit of masonry that had fallen from the ceiling and flung it at the thing just to piss it off further, and almost cheered when the chunk of stone hit it on its already badly-injured face.

As it was pulling its arm back to lay into Alistair again, it was hit by another round of spellwork. This time, it was a combination of Wynne's ice and Ted's fire, the former aimed at the demon's legs and the latter being thrown at its upper body and head. The demon reeled at the onslaught, rounding on the two mages, and Alistair inwardly cursed their timing even as he was admitting to himself that their combined tactics weren't too bad.

Except Ted got cocky. He got too close. The demon had been slowed by their attacks, but not stopped; as he was channelling another spell, the thing lunged in his direction. Alistair realized, far too late, that he wasn't going to be able to get in between the thing that had been Uldred and its target.

Even injured, blind, and clumsy, the demon was able to swat Ted hard enough to send him flying into a wall. And when the other Warden fell to a crumpled heap on the floor, Alistair felt for an instant like his heart had stopped.

Wynne threw another cold spell at the thing's legs, and managed to freeze the uninjured one solid. The ensuing enraged howl from the demon brought Alistair quickly back to the present.

The former Templar saw the opportunity presented to him, and slammed bodily into the demon's frozen leg, using his shield like a battering ram. The limb cracked clean through, and the crack splintered into smaller cracks, but it didn't shatter. Still, the effect was about the same; the blighted thing wasn't _going_ anywhere.

Immobilized, the demon roared and swung angrily at its tiny attackers, but as it was blinded, Alistair didn't have too much trouble dodging. Zevran, from his newfound perch on yet another bookcase, had no trouble leaping onto the demon's back, and even less difficulty in staying where he'd landed once he got his blades dug into the thing's shoulders, ignoring how it flailed and tried ineffectually to grab at him.

Alistair threw Zevran his silverite sword, and the assassin caught it with practiced ease. Then he drove the borrowed blade up into the back of the demon's horned head, and moments later, the thing lay in a twitching heap on the floor in a pool of its own blood.

Warden and assassin both looked at each other. Zevran pulled the sword out of the dead demon's corpse, and handed it back to Alistair with a respectful nod. Alistair returned the nod, taking his sword and sheathing it in complete disregard of how much of a mess it was. After that, both of them turned their heads toward where the little mage had fallen, Wynne having already headed in that direction.

And both of them broke into a run.

 


	11. End of the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair should be happier, and he knows it. But he isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAHHHHH. This was a bit easier to write than I thought it would be. Ted's profanity-laced vocabulary is rubbing off on Alistair slightly, even if Alistair doesn't say any of it out loud, and it amuses the hell out of me.

In the main entry hall at the base of the tower, Alistair was sitting in the darkest corner he'd been able to find with the palm of his hand pressed against his forehead and his eyes squeezed shut. His ears rang, his head throbbed, and his stomach was in knots.

It had been hours since he'd had that lyrium potion. Many, many hours. Alistair wasn't sure what time it was, nor did he really care. He just wished his ears would stop ringing and his head would stop feeling like it was _buzzing_ for a bit so that maybe he could think. That would be nice. Lyrium hangovers could sod right off.

Except he didn't really _want_ to think, he just wanted to have the option in case he needed it. Because at that point, being able to think properly would lead him to dark corners of his own head that he didn't want to revisit just yet.

_So frail. So fragile. Alistair had never quite realized how delicate his friend was until he saw the little mage lying in a boneless heap on the floor, blood trickling from the corner of his too-pale lips and every shallow breath rattling in his chest..._

No. He wouldn't think about that. Just like he wouldn't think about how hard Wynne had needed to work to heal the younger mage, or how he'd woken up in the middle of being healed with a bitten-back scream because of the severity of his injuries, or how he'd tried to sit up before his ribs had knit themselves back together and immediately collapsed again, gasping-- oh, _bollocks_ , this wasn't helping. Now Alistair couldn't tell whether he felt sick because of the lyrium withdrawal or because his traitorous mind saw fit to go over best-friend-nearly-dying thing again.

Sitting up a little straighter, Alistair let his hand fall away from his face and dared to open his eyes. And in spite of his head, he had to smile at what he saw. Ted, after all, was still very much alive, although the former Templar didn't know quite _how_. At that moment, the smaller Warden was chewing out an actual Templar for being, well, a Templar, even though there was really no reason the mage should be standing up on his own, let alone stomping around and yelling at blokes in armor.

Not that Ted was completely unaffected by his earlier ordeal. He moved with a considerable amount of care, and occasionally his hand would come up to hold or rub at his chest through his robes, as if it ached. Between that and the mage's irritability, it was pretty obvious to anyone that knew him that he was in enough pain to justify _sitting down_ for a moment. But no, there were Templars to be snarled at and rants to do, so Ted probably wouldn't allow for a moment to himself for a while yet.

_Stubborn little shit_ , Alistair thought, with just a hint of fondness.

Then he felt just a little bit relieved when Wynne and Zevran joined forces in getting the little mage to calm down and rest a moment. He was almost relieved enough to overlook the annoyance that followed from seeing Zevran kneeling in front of the mage after he'd sat down and smiling at him, brushing loose strands of platinum hair away from the smaller man's face and making him snort and shake his head at something Alistair couldn't hear.

Almost, but not quite.

\---

Wynne had returned with them, when they'd crossed the lake and returned to the tavern; it had been agreed previously that the little tavern by the pier would be where they met up with the rest of their ragtag band before setting off again. She had sort of inserted herself into their group without really asking, but Alistair didn't really mind that much.

He liked her. She was sort of... well, grandmotherly, and she was a healer. A damn good one, too. That would help take some of the burden off of Ted, who would work himself to death if given a chance.

Once everyone was present and accounted for, it was decided that they would all take a night off to rest before moving on to the next stop, which was an old, abandoned Warden keep that was apparently haunted. A merchant had given Ted the idea, and he'd thought that it would be good to have a proper stronghold should they need to "haul ass and retreat", as he'd put it.

Morrigan didn't see a point, Leliana thought it poetic, Sten mentioned something about it being tactically advantageous, Wynne wondered if there was time, Zevran shrugged, Shale lamented the drudgery of it all, and Bodahn admitted that it would be nice to have a place to put everything. Overall, less complaints arose at the idea of poking around in a haunted castle than there had been at the notion of finding Andraste's ashes, so it was agreed that Soldier's Peak would be the group's next stop.

After their impromptu little meeting, the group splintered as some went to bed, some got a bit to eat, and some just stayed downstairs to chat for a while. Alistair honestly didn't care one way or the other about Soldier's Peak; he was exhausted, physically and emotionally, though his mind was still too active for sleep to be a possibility. So, he got a pint of watery ale to help him ignore the lingering fogginess and other effects from the lyrium, and sat down at a table in a corner to watch what socializing there was between those that lingered.

Wynne and Shale were talking. It was surprising to see Shale getting along with anyone, let alone someone they all barely knew, but Wynne was having one of the longest conversations that Alistair had ever seen anyone have with the golem, all while sipping at a bottle of something much darker than the older Warden's ale.

The ale was awful, by the way. Ted had gotten it for him when he'd asked, but by the Maker, it was like _dishwater_. How did people even drink this... _awfulness_ on a regular basis? Maybe he should have asked for rum instead. Or wine. People drank wine a lot, didn't they? Brandy, maybe? Alistair really didn't do enough drinking to know.

What he _did_ know was that he wanted to look at anything but Ted, because the little mage had decided to stay downstairs to talk. With Zevran. Eventually, though, Wynne went to bed, and afterwards there was little _else_ to look at.

Alistair took another swig of his terrible ale, and tried to avert his eyes. Tried and failed. Ted laughed, and the sound caused the former Templar to look up, even though he instantly regretted doing so. Zevran had an arm around the smaller elf's shoulders, and he was telling Ted something that Alistair couldn't quite make out. Whatever it was, it made the little mage laugh again, followed by a half-hearted shove and a declaration of "you _dumbass_ " that made the assassin snicker in turn.

He didn't like it. He hadn't liked it when the two elves had gotten to be friends, but he liked whatever _this_ was even less. It... bothered him, made him uneasy. A part of him wanted to step in, push them apart and--

...and _what_ , exactly? He wanted to push the question aside, but couldn't. And as he examined it further, he found that it opened the proverbial floodgates for even more questions.

Why was he bothered by his friend being laughing and being happy and flirty with someone?

What was so wrong with his friend getting _close_ to someone?

Was it simply distrust of Zevran in particular, or something else?

For a moment, Ted turned to look back at the room, and his eyes met Alistair's. He blinked as if surprised to see the other Warden back there, then flashed a small, brief smile. After that, he shifted his attention back to Zevran, and the conversation resumed as before.

...Oh.

Oh, _Maker_. He was bloody _jealous_. Sweet blessed Andraste, he was jealous over his best friend.

That... that wasn't _proper_ , was it? Because he hadn't been jealous before, when Ted had made other friends, and if it were simply a matter of the little mage's attention being divided then _surely_ it would have come up before, but it hadn't. It was only with Zevran, and only because the two elves were all... _sweet_ on each other, wasn't it? He was jealous of Ted being sweet with someone.

_Maker's breath, I like my best friend. Really, really like him._ The thought was a revelation to him, and he couldn't deny it now that it was in his head because it was painfully true. So much could be explained by it that he wondered if he wasn't just completely _thick_ for having never noticed it previously. He even wondered whether it would have occurred to him at all had the other Warden not nearly died, earlier.

As if on some horrible cue, the conversation that the two elves were having dwindled into chuckling, then silence. Zevran smiled and lifted a hand to gently push aside a few hairs that had fallen into Ted's face again, and the younger elf blinked in confusion. Then the assassin leaned in close, and... oh, brilliant, they were _snogging_.

Alistair wasn't sure why he'd stayed long enough to be able to see even that much, but he _definitely_ had to leave the room then. This was partly because watching made his chest uncomfortably tight, and he just wanted to curl up in his room upstairs and sleep for an age so that he might ignore it in hopes of it going away.

But also partly due to the fact that he was sorely tempted to break Zevran's pretty, tattooed, smirking face, and if he had stayed any longer or had any more of that blasted ale, he just might have given in to that temptation.

 


End file.
